It's what's on the inside that counts
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Stanford Pines is in pain, but he won't acknowledge it. SO. I FOUND THIS IN MY DOC MANAGER. AND IT WAS MARKED AS "pain". LITERALLY JUST PAIN. So I reread it, and I found that it lived up to its name (because I never know when it comes to me) SO: Tw? For angst, more angst, I think I implied major character death. More pain. UUUUUhhhhhhh nightmares and BIll cipher. Don't die, guys!
1. ayyye it's pain! PAIN IS HILARIOUS!

**Pain is the fire that forges our souls into iron.  
**

* * *

"No..."

Stanford's entire body trembled as he fell to his knees.

"NO!"

He lifted up his brother's limp head from the ground, his blood boiling. Every beat of his heart fanning the flames of his fury. It was a feeling that overwhelmed him, more than his human frame could stand. It made his very bones shake and his eyes glow red.

"_No." _

He laid Stanley's head back to the ground as gently as his quivering hands could manage. Even as his eyes blurred with tears and his breaths came in deep and heavy, he stood, facing the deliverer of his rage.

"AWE! LOOKS LIKE _SOMEONE'S_ LIMBIC CENTER IS OVERLOADING! YOU SHOULD LEARN TO TAKE A JOKE, IQ," Cipher rose to float above Stanford's head, chuckling as he began to loom over Stanford's figure. The larger he got, the deeper his voice rang out. Bill took full advantage, his very laugh causing the ground to quake.

Stanford stood his ground, his will unbroken. He was going to _tear _Cipher apart, brick by two-dimensional _brick._

"NOT TALKING? _FINE. DON'T." _

Ford growled, lurching forward at Cipher. He didn't have a plan, only an aspiration.

Bill didn't even pretend to be concerned. He snapped his fingers, emitting all the emotion of an exhausted mother, tired of her child's tantrums.

He was inches away from Bill, his fist moments away from contact, when he suddenly began clawing at his throat. He gasped, eyes wide. His sweater was tightening around his neck, choking him.

He tried to yell out, to do anything, but the improvised noose was unrelenting. The last thing he saw was a flash of gleaming yellow before collapsing into unconsciousness.

...

Stanford jerked up, falling off the couch as he woke up. He was shivering. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with being cold.

Sighing, he pushed himself off the floor, dropping himself back down onto the couch. The nightmares were getting worse. He rubbed at his eyes, reaching out to find his glasses.

_How much longer will he haunt me? _Ford wondered. He located his lenses and shoved them on his face. They sat askew, but he couldn't have cared less. At the very least, he could finally _see_ now. He stood and stretched out his back with another deep sigh. He was fit, but youth had left him long ago.

Running one hand through his ruffled hair, he walked into the kitchen. He was keenly aware of the lack of his brother's presence as he started a pot of coffee. He did his best to ignore the feeling as he made breakfast.

He sat at the table alone, eating slowly. Living alone in the past allowed Ford to do whatever he wanted. He used to skip breakfast and lunch often, living off coffee and whatever he scraped up from the back of the fridge. When he did prepare a meal, he would scarf it down, eager to continue working.

Yet now...it didn't seem quite so important. He finished his food then proceeded to clean the few dishes he'd used. Stanley had always kept a clean house-

Stanford scrubbed harder, unaware the dish was already as clean as it was going to get. He emptied his mind, allowing the work to numb away his thoughts. He got lost in the motions, cleaning, rinsing and drying until each dish was back in their proper places, glistening with cleanliness.

He nodded at his work, drying off his own hands just as methodically as he had the dishes.

Unwilling to let go of the mind-numbing feeling chores brought, he glanced the rest of the kitchen. The table was cleared and brighter than it had been in years. The counters equally so. He frowned. He had never lived somewhere so orderly, much less put anything in order. Unless you count putting together parts of a machine or even essay structures.

He didn't think those qualified.

He scanned the rest of the kitchen. Every surface had been tidied or scrubbed within an inch of its life. He left, his frown etched into his features.

The living room was just as tidy. He noticed his trenchcoat lying on- _Stanley's -_the armchair. He swooped it up, setting it on the coat holder beside the hallway entrance.

He stared down the hall, noting the stairs that led up to the second floor. He hadn't visited upstairs since the children had left. It was probably still filthy. He gazed at the steps, contemplating.

_I_ _can't._

He turned away, his feet heavy.

His entire life had been spent shoving things away. There were obvious things. Physical things. Like his family, his friends. Even food. But those were only symptoms.

The real problems lie within his mind, and that was one place Stanford never wanted to explore again.


	2. Idk wut I'm do-ING!

_**You made me this way. You know what I can do. **_**  
**

* * *

They told him about the tombstones.

The entire town was on his doorstep, hundreds of solemn eyes staring up at him.

Ford blinked, "Their bodies weren't-"

"We know." The mayor interrupted, "We couldn't just...do nothing."

Ford adjusted his glasses, trying to think of something to say. Most of his attention was being used trying to avoid thinking about...about _everything._ After a moment, he nodded.

"Thank you. All of you..."

_Should I invite them in? Do I go to the cemetery- no. I can't. Ugh! Mabel would- _Ford stopped his thoughts there.

The waitress...Susan(?) walked up steps near the door. Ford took a step back.

She smiled, "Hey! We know it's sad...if there's anything we can do to help, don't hesitate to ask, alright sugar?" She clasped her hands together, looking at him hopefully. Ford nodded again, retreating further behind the door.

This was the most attention he had ever had from the town's occupants, and admittedly, the most attention he had given to them. The only exception was boyish Dan- well. Manly Dan now.

When the mayor realized Ford wasn't going to be saying anything more, he ushered the people away, glancing back. "Don't be 'fraid to give any of us a buzz! If you're curious," the mayor pointed over the trees toward the east side of town, "The memorial and individual graves are in the center of the cemetery. I'm sorry you didn't know beforehand. We tried to contact you, but it seemed like you weren't home?"

Ford nodded once more and the Mayor left, looking defeated.

_I must've been walking in the woods at the time..._Ford thought. He fell back on the door, shutting it with abang. He gazed at their- _his_ living room.

The skull he had found near a cave sat next to the armchair. At one time, it was in a glass case, a specimen to be observed. Now, it was a table for remotes and Pitt colas. A series of textbooks he had kept strewn across the ground remained in alphabetical order on a bookcase. A broken cuckoo clock sat on the wall.

And that armchair. That _stupid __yellow_ _armchair. _

Ford gasped. He was back in the field. Cipher laughing over his suffocating form. He clawed at his neck, desperate for air.

_Can'tbreatheCan'tbreathe, I can' e- _

_I'm still awake._

Ford could feel the pressure in his lungs, the desire for air, but he wasn't lightheaded. He wasn't passing out. If he could've, he would've laughed.

_Can't kill me when I'm not here, Bill. _

Ford stood up. His legs shook, but not with effort. His blood was boiling again. He could _see_ it as his eyes turned red.

Bill laughed, "WHAT DO YOU THINK _YOU'RE DOING, SIXER? FIGHTING BACK? _**_YOU CAN'T KILL ME WHEN I'M NOT HERE." _**Bill snapped his fingers, and suddenly the vision dissipated.

Ford was on the ground, panting. One hand flew to his neck while the other caught him before he hit the floor face first.

He pounded his fist against the floor. He wasn't shivering, but he could still _feel _it. The anger. The desire to _rip Bill apart._ Ford twitched and tried to collect himself. To calm down. He needed to find a distraction, another chore-

_NO. _Ford was on his feet.

_NO. _Something squealed against the floor.

_NO. _His arms were raised.

His muscles burned as he threw something at the wall, the entire house shuttering with the impact. He was growling at the air, tears blurring over his vision. He stood there, waiting as the fire cooled and suddenly he realized what he'd done.

The armchair was on the ground. Boards in the wall were splintered from the collision. The chair itself was held together by the fabric only. Ford stared at it, his body finally begging to quiver. He fell to his knees, rubbing at his eyes.

_I'm sorry-_

_..._

Although he knew the townspeople would be understanding, kind even, he avoided them the entire way to the cemetery.

Ford wasn't sure why he was even bothering to leave the house. He already knew that his fami- they were...gone. What was the point in seeing a piece of rock?

Ford thought about that question as he clambered over a fence, landing on the ground with a thump. He thought about it as he weaved his way toward's the center of the small graveyard.

He got his answer as he gazed up at the statue, three smiling faces gazing down at him. He wanted to scream.

It was almost like seeing ghosts. Except not because he'd seen ghosts before and none of them had shaken him like this one Statue was.

Stan was in the middle, laughing as he held the twins on his arms. Dipper's pencil was in his hair and Mabel's favorite sweater almost looked soft.

Whoever carved this deserved some credit for incredibly quality, even as it was ripping out Ford's heart.

But that wasn't exactly the sculptor's fault.

He couldn't look at it anymore. His gaze fell toward the ground and he noticed the engraving. He read it before he made the conscious decision to do so.

_Here we honor the true heroes of Gravity Falls. May the Pines family tree never fall from our memories. _

Ford blinked. Was that a pun? He wasn't sure. He didn't care.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, staring at the grass beneath his feet, before finally turning away. He scaled the fence again and trecked it back to the Shack.

_The point in seeing a piece of rock:_ _To further emotional torment. _


End file.
